Some years ago, at a previous newspaper, the editor put me on the spot. “So, which columnists do you like?” she said. There was a long silence. Too long. “What, you don’t like any columnists?” she exclaimed, affronted. Not a good look: arrogant, and disloyal. But it wasn’t intended. I was trying to be polite. I didn’t want to rush off a list and leave out a good one. I like lots of columnists; but, right now, some in particular are my favourites.

They’re the ones who campaigned for Brexit and now complain bitterly about being stuck at the back of long, slow-moving queues at European destinations. I delight in those polemics, particularly if the writer doubles as a politician. Ideally, for Westminster’s opportunists, I would additionally wish for luggage to be mislaid, the lost baggage counter to be closed or staffed by the bone idle or disaffected, and the hotel shuttle bus to reverse over their foot.

Because, invariably, we are indignantly told whose fault these delays are. Not theirs. Not the Brexiteers. Perish the thought we take responsibility for our actions. No, it’s always the incompetence of those dastardly Europeans, the French or the Spanish, for not walking behind us with a dustpan and brush clearing up our mess. They haven’t laid on the staff, they haven’t switched on the scanners, they did it to punish us, they did it out of spite, out of jealousy, out of bitterness at our bold decision to make ourselves poorer and less relevant. Sir Keir Starmer has flown to the peace talks, apparently. To do what, hold coats? Who cares what he thinks?

You’ll be hearing and reading a lot more about this stuff now the fingerprinting and biometrics have kicked in, but there’s a reason European border control is light on staff or reluctant to spend billions on technology for our benefit. They’re all in the Schengen zone. When I flew from Lisbon to Paris this week, nobody even looked at my passport on arrival. I was already in via Portugal.

But we’re out. And now we need people and machinery to process us. So that’s not their problem. They’re happy as they are. Enjoy the choices you made, some of you. And get to the back of the queue.

Appy outcome

Anyway, a word of thanks to a Times reader, Jon Hossain. Last week, when I wrote about the pending trip to Portugal and concerns about delays with the new digital entry-exit system, Jon recommended the Travel to Europe app, which allows registration in advance. I filled in my details in minutes and received a lovely QR code to present to immigration staff and speed up the process.

That’s the good news. The bad was that nobody seemed to know what it was. Instead, I was directed to an entry machine that read my passport and let me through, where a guy on the other side stamped it. Took two minutes. I’ve had more hassle at Heathrow. Some travellers reported delays of up to three hours the previous day, but that was over Easter so maybe bank holidays are chaos wherever you are.

So thanks to the Portuguese for my smooth passage. They made our system work. And if I breezed through but all these Brexit-touting essayists are having a miserable time in immigration, maybe there is a God. And Brexit might claim the spirit of the late Mrs Thatcher, but clearly He voted Remain.

Jarring decision

Marmalade? Seriously, that’s the best they’ve got? Labour are drawing us nearer the EU and the Brexit vanguard has its panties in a bind over marmalade? And not even the contents of the jar, just the labelling. We will have to call it citrus marmalade apparently, because of linguistic complexities in parts of Europe. Oh, the hardship.

Seriously, we’re down this path again: hands off some fictional bear’s favourite sandwich. This was the sort of specious nonsense that inspired such a rotten call in the first place. Don’t get fooled again. If it’s citrus marmalade and we can go back to being a sensible, pragmatic country, then I’d have that on toast; maybe with one of those straight EU bananas Boris Johnson was always banging on about. That didn’t exist.